


The Yawning Ice

by rayemars



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Ritual Murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-18 18:55:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20196457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayemars/pseuds/rayemars
Summary: There are rules about who can be selected for the finale of each playoff round. It has to be a member of the losing team. Rookies are exempt from it. So are captains and alternates.Popular players usually aren't chosen, but that one isn't an official league rule. Breaking it can generate bad blood between teams for years; but sometimes it gets broken anyway.





	The Yawning Ice

There are official rules about the finale of each playoff round:

1\. Rookies are exempt.

2\. Call-ups under twenty-five are exempt.

3\. Call-ups over twenty-five who've been called up for ten or less regular season games, or for three or less playoff games, are exempt.

4\. Captains, alternate captains, and goalies are exempt.

5\. A referee must be present at the sacrifice. If neither referee is willing to be present due to conscientious objection, then the general managers of the two teams must make a joint phone call to the NHL's Hockey Operations office. Toronto will choose one of the linesmen to take the referee's place.*

* Scrappy heard a rumor that a couple years back, at the end of one round, both linesmen conscientiously objected as well. So the Director of Hockey Operations had to be a proxy representative and observe the sacrifice through a video call.

That sounded pretty far-fetched, though. No one would ever schedule a potential best-of-four game where both of the referees and the linesmen were conscientious objectors. That's just asking for trouble. And potential whistle-blowing.

6\. The winning team's captain has to perform the sacrifice. If the winning team does not have a captain, or if the captain is too injured to perform the sacrifice compassionately, then the alternate captain on the winning team with the most time on ice during that playoff round has to perform the sacrifice.

7\. Only a player present in the conclusive game, on the losing side, can be selected.

Scrappy always wondered about that "on the losing side" part. Did a winning team once try to sacrifice one of its own players instead of somebody on the other side? Why would they do that?

"Get rid of dead weight," Parse muttered, when they were debating it over breakfast the morning after Vegas's first playoff round victory.

Their table got a little quieter. So did the tables around them.

Then Swoops elbowed Parse in the side and told him to drink more coffee, he was being a brat.

Parse just grunted and ate more of his eggs.

Swoops took over the debate again, a little louder now than before. Parse messed with his phone and didn't say anything else.

Most of the guys gave him a pass for it. It was his first year as captain, and last night was the Aces' first playoff round win since he was promoted. It was the first time Parse had to perform the sacrifice.

He was just a twenty-year-old kid. That was a rough enough situation that he could be half-forgiven for being kind of a dick the morning after.

There were a few guys like Parse in the league, but not many: Towes, Landeskog, McDavid. Guys whose teams immediately pushed them into the captaincy as soon as their rookie-status protection ran out. Even Crosby was promoted to alt in his sophomore year when he didn't want to take on the full captaincy yet, to keep him exempt when Pittsburgh lost to Ottawa in the quarterfinals.

Although he probably would've been safe anyway. Ottawa must've known that if they selected Crosby for the sacrifice, the first time they came to Pittsburgh next season, their bus wouldn't have made it to the arena. Pennsylvania doesn't fuck around, whether it's the Pens or the Flyers.

Because there are other rules, too. They aren't handed down by the league, but every player knows them. Their union put the list together in its first year:

1\. Don't make it hurt. No matter how much bad history the sacrificer has with the sacrifice, don't be an asshole.

2\. Don't pick someone with a brand-new kid, or who just got married, or who has family depending on his income.

3\. Don't pick a popular guy: somebody who falls outside the official rules' limits, but who'll create a lot of problems for his team if it has to explain his sudden "retirement." That's asking for trouble.

4\. Don't pick somebody whose teammates like him enough that guys will be out for your team's blood for the next couple years. That's just stupid.

It was a mix of three and four that eventually made Scrappy feel like he was safe from being picked. Until suddenly he wasn't.

*

It all happens fast, in the same night as the loss.

There's a lot of reasons for that. It limits guys' time to react, to think, to run, to whistle-blow. It limits potential outside discovery, which's become more and more of an issue for the league now that camera phones are everywhere.

It probably makes it easier. It doesn't really feel real.

*

When Seattle beats them after six games in round two of the playoffs, things are semi-normal for a while. Everybody has to strip out of their sweat-soaked pads, do the post-game media interviews, get on the bike to cool down, and hit the showers.

The main thing that makes it clear this is a playoff finale is how all the bottom-six forwards and third-pairing defensemen are hyper-tense. They're all waiting to find out which one of them is going to be selected.

After the media's gone and the last of the fans have been chased out of the arena, a referee comes into the Aces' dressing room and announces that the Schooners have selected Scrappy for the sacrifice.

The majority of the room loses its shit.

Swoops gets in a furious argument with the referee, yelling with a panicked edge, while Scrappy sits in his stall and tries to come to terms with it.

A few guys thump him on the shoulder or back or thigh, mumbling things he can't fully process. Scrappy nods mechanically, and pops a couple of the guys he's friends with on the arm when they hesitate before telling them to head back home.

Carly grips the back of his neck and tells Scrappy that this is bullshit and he's gonna beat the hell out of Seattle's captain the next game they play. Scrappy thumps him on the arm and tells him not to do anything stupid.

"Want me to take your dog?" Carly asks.

Scrappy blinks, and then rubs his face. "--Yeah. Thanks, Carly."

"Sure thing." He promises, "I'll take good care of her."

Scrappy digs out his apartment keys and hands them over, and tells Carly where he stores the dog food so he can grab that too. Over by the doors, a couple guys are slipping out silently.

Scrappy can't bring himself to blame them. Most of them are the grinders, the low-scorers, the ones who spent the last couple hours terrified that they were going to be the one chosen, once the Schooners got that third goal up on the Aces in the final period and put the last nail in their playoff-run coffin.

He can't blame them for just leaving. They're still trying to process the fact that they're going to live through tonight; he's still trying to process that he isn't.

Parse disappeared after the announcement. Scrappy realizes it first, because Swoops is still desperately arguing with the ref like that's ever saved any guy before, and Scrappy just--he needs to see Parse. But he's not in the dressing room. Everybody came back from the showers and the exercise room to wait for the selection, he should be here. Scrappy knows he was here earlier. Parse was trying to talk down the journeyman player who'd divorced last offseason and who was in a panic that he was going to be the one selected.

"Where's Parser?" he asks hoarsely; and the room falls silent in waves.

It's a good thing he noticed when he did. The league guys immediately go looking for him, and find Parse in the middle of a fight with Seattle's captain in the tunnel leading out to the ice.

It takes all of the league's playoff round finale security guys to break up the fight, which is kind of impressive. Those guys are huge. But Parse is enraged.

There's a break while the teams' doctors make Parse put ice on his black eye and bleeding knuckles, and sew up the Schooners' captain's bleeding face, because Parse managed to get a hold of the sacrifice knife and cut Fearn with it. Toronto calls while Parse is getting treated and lectures him for excessive emotion and unsportsmanlike behavior.

Swoops stays with Scrappy in the tunnel out onto the ice while they wait. The space is kind of wrecked from the fight: the arena cleaning staff were all sent out of the building, and everybody else was too busy getting Parse and Fearn separated. The cleaning staff won't be allowed back in until tomorrow afternoon, when the ice technicians have melted down the Aces' ice for the season and disposed of all the water and the blood.

Scrappy straightens up the tunnel for a little while, righting the gatorade cart and putting the cooler back on it. He and Swoops use up almost all the towels on the supply table, mashing them down over the puddle of gatorade to soak it up.

Scrappy stares down at the sodden mess afterward and tries to think of something else he can do. Anything. If he doesn't do something, he's going to start thinking about the empty ice at the end of the tunnel, waiting for him.

Swoops drapes an arm over his shoulders and pulls him close. Scrappy stares down at the towels for a while longer, and then slumps back against the wall.

"They don't really feed--" he almost says 'us,' but the word sticks hard in his throat "--the bodies to pigs. Right?"

"Nah," Swoops says. Maybe he's lying; his voice is shaking, even though he's trying to sound normal. "That was Parse being a little shit."

". . . Yeah," Scrappy agrees.

The Aces' run to winning the Cup in 2012 was rough. Parse was only twenty-one, in his second year as captain. He handled most of the sacrifices that year pretty well; but after the third one, when the Aces won the conference finals and advanced to the Cup finals, Scrappy and Swoops spent the night in Parse's hotel room once they realized from his texts that he was drinking himself sick.

Scrappy wound up sleeping a few times while they were in there, once Swoops got Parse talked down enough that he stopped yelling at them and instead was willing to help Swoops dump what was left of the liquor in the minibar down the sink. Scrappy felt bad about abandoning Swoops and Parse like that, but he was exhausted from how bad the last couple games were. And the painkillers made him sleepy.

He woke up one time on the far bed, and looked blearily over at the other one. Swoops and Parse were sitting propped against the headboard, watching a muted movie on the TV. Swoops had an arm over Parse's shoulders as Parse slumped half-passed out against the pillows, a bottle of water wedged between his legs and an emptied one lying on the blanket.

_Good_, Scrappy thought vaguely, before closing his eyes again. It was going to be okay, even if he was asleep.

It would be okay, even if he wasn't here.

It had to be. He has to believe that.

"You gotta look out for him," Scrappy says. It comes out quiet and rawer than he meant; he hasn't really talked for a while. Swoops leans closer.

Scrappy clears his throat. "Parser. You gotta look out for him."

"I am way too glass-jawed to be the bodyguard that little rat needs," Swoops says, and Scrappy barks out a laugh.

"Yeah," he grins.

"You didn't _have_ to agree," Swoops grumbles, and Scrappy laughs more. Swoops squeezes his shoulder and shakes him a little.

Scrappy keeps laughing, for way too long, way longer than is normal. But Swoops just pats his shoulder.

He finally rubs his face hard, trying to force back the stinging heat in his eyes. His hands smell like gatorade and the filthy rubber mats of the tunnel.

Swoops starts to say something, but then he stops and just squeezes Scrappy's shoulder tighter. ". . . Fuck. Scraps. It's been so good to play with you."

"Yeah," Scrappy manages. He rubs his eyes again. "Yeah. You too, Swoops. Jeff. It's been--fucking, our line. These years. It's been--" damn it, he's crying.

"Yeah," Jeff says softly. His voice cracks as he says, "Yeah, Dima. It's been spectacular. I'm glad you're on our line. I'm glad you're my friend."

Scrappy thumps him on the back and keeps scrubbing his face.  
  
  
He's gotten back to something resembling together when they hear footfalls in the hallway leading to the tunnel. Parse and Seattle's captain enter it a couple moments later.

Parse looks over at Scrappy, and immediately turns around to hiss something at Fearn.

"You're making it worse," Fearn says. His voice comes out awkward: he's favoring the left side of his face, where Parse sliced him open from his temple nearly to his mouth. A few centimeters over, and he'd have gotten his eye. "Dragging this out."

"Fuck _off_," Parse snarls, starting for him like he's ready to fight Fearn again despite his busted hand and swollen eye.

"**Kent**," Jeff says.

When Parse pauses for a second, Scrappy catches Fearn's gaze. "Couple minutes," he says, and it mostly doesn't sound like a plea.

Fearn looks at him for a breath, and then nods shortly. He turns the corner and disappears.

He's not a bad guy. Scrappy doesn't have anything personal against him. There's a few guys in the league that he honestly despises; at least it's not going to be done by one of them. He could do worse than losing permanently to Seattle.

Fearn's just fulfilling his responsibility as the Schooners' captain. The same way that every playoff round where Parse showed up for breakfast the next morning with his hands scrubbed red and his nails cut to the quick to get rid of the traces of blood, he was just fulfilling his responsibility as the Aces' captain.

They all know what it means to play in the NHL. To aim for the playoffs. They all do it anyway.

They all tell themselves that the narrow chance of glory, of lifting the Cup, is worth the costs. They all probably believe it, too, most of the time.

Parse is still standing with his back to them, shaking faintly.

"Parser," Scrappy says, "it's gonna be okay."

"_Scraps_," Parse says, twisting around to stare at him. He's pale.

Scrappy exhales slowly, and thinks again that somebody on the team is really gonna have to step up and look out for him, once Scrappy isn't there to. Parse has a bad habit of starting trouble when he gets emotional.

Parse usually seems calm, enough that he can fool a lot of people almost all the time. But when something cuts past his armor, he goes off like an incendiary bomb, destroying everything around him and starting worst with himself. He's gotten a little better than he used to be, but still. He's gonna be lucky if he doesn't get a suspension for cutting Fearn, if the league can figure out a way to justify it without revealing the truth about the playoffs' finales.

"It's gonna be okay, Kent," Scrappy says. Kent shudders and glares down at the rubber mats.

Scrappy thumps Jeff on the back once more and then steps out from under his arm. Jeff lets him go with a final shoulder squeeze.

Kent doesn't move or lift his head as Scrappy goes over to him, because he's always been too damn stubborn for his own good. Sometimes it kind of drives Scrappy nuts; but he can't really picture Kent being any other way. Kent shudders again when Scrappy wraps an arm around his back.

"Happens every year," Scrappy reminds him, thumping Kent lightly on the shoulder. "It'll be okay."

"Not to **you**," Kent says harshly.

"Yeah," Scrappy agrees, since that's true. He's still here. He was here for a long time.

Kent breathes hard through his teeth. And then he takes a longer, deeper breath, and reaches up and pats Scrappy's back.

"Glad I got to play with you, man," Kent says roughly. "Fuckin' heart of our line, Scraps."

"...I mean, more like the fists," Jeff replies; and Scrappy laughs out loud. Kent snorts through his nose.

Jeff comes over and squeezes Scrappy's shoulder again. "He's right, though," he says quieter. "I'm glad I got to play with you, Dima. Thanks for all these years."

"Fuck," Kent hisses, tightening his grip on the back of Scrappy's t-shirt. Then he swallows hard. "...Yeah. Dima. Thanks for everything."

"Yeah," Scrappy says, and it comes out choked again. He was doing okay holding it together, but now they're making it pretty hard. "You too. Both of you."

He reaches around awkwardly to pull Jeff closer to both of them. It probably looks kind of weird to be publicly hugging his linemates in the middle of the tunnel out to the ice, but Scrappy figures if there's any point in his life where he doesn't have to give a damn about what this looks like, now is it.

"I'm gonna kill him," Kent says under his breath. "All of 'em."

"No," Scrappy tells him, because that'd for _sure_ get him suspended. "--Get a hat trick against them. Every game."

Kent snorts again, and then shakes his head before finally looking up at Scrappy. His eyes are red, but he's trying to half-smile. "Alright."

"Ditto," Jeff promises. "Will do."

"You try and get **one** goal against them, in the whole season, that's good enough," Scrappy tells him, patting his shoulder sympathetically.

"Mother_fucker_," Jeff says in mock outrage, because they all know he's the top scorer on the team. Kent snickers.

There's footsteps in the hallway again. Scrappy reflexively tightens his grip.

And then he makes himself let go and pull back. Jeff and Kent take longer to do the same.

The Aces' trainer comes around the corner, with the Schooners' captain trailing behind him.

"All right, guys," the trainer says. "C'mon."

Kent swallows hard again and clenches his jaw. Jeff flexes his hands at his sides, and takes a slow breath.

The man looks behind him at the Schooners' captain. "Go wait at center ice."

Fearn frowns. "What?"

"Center ice," Elliot repeats. "That's where it happens. Not here."

"But--" Fearn starts.

Elliot just raises an eyebrow.

Fearn looks at him for another moment, and then exhales hard and shakes his head. But he goes, walking along the far side of the tunnel away from Kent. He keeps the knife in his hand next to the wall, out of reach. Kent watches him leave with narrowed eyes.

The Aces' trainer picks up Kent's ice pack from where it fell on the floor, and then peels off the dirty cloth and wraps it in one of the few towels left folded on the supply table before handing it to Kent. Kent puts it back on his knuckles.

"All right," Elliot says, before turning around and heading back toward the hallway. "I have to get something. Better say what you've got now, guys."  
  
  
The next few minutes don't feel any more real.

The club and the league are supposed to deal with most things: closing his lease, getting his possessions and final paycheck to his next-of-kin, executing his will discreetly. Or at least, that's always been their claim. Scrappy hopes it's true, because he's blanking on all the things that need to be done. It's happening so fast. He got kind of cocky--he hasn't been preparing his life like he could potentially be selected for several years now.

He gives Jeff his car keys so the man can donate it to his charity, and gives Kent his wallet so he can mail the pictures inside to Scrappy's parents. He's still trying to sort out a message for the two of them to pass on to his family when the trainer returns.

Messages probably never make it to their families, anyway. Sometimes it's hard to know just how deep the tacit silence about the playoff finales goes, and who knows about what really happens to the retired players and who really doesn't. Somebody's family would have leaked the truth by now if they'd learned it, right?

He doesn't know. Maybe the league will bribe his family so they stay quiet. Scrappy guesses that's okay, if it means his parents and sister don't have to worry about bills for a long time.

"All right," the trainer tells Jeff and Kent. "Time to head home, guys."

Kent starts to snap something at him; but then he stops, and closes his eyes, and takes a long breath.

A few moments later, Kent grips Scrappy's hand and pulls him in for a one-armed hug. "Thanks for everything," he says, slapping him on the back. "You're a great fuckin' friend. Best anybody could hope for. I'm glad we played together. I'm gonna--" his voice cracks. Kent swallows hard. "I'm gonna miss you, Scraps."

"Me too, Parser," Scrappy says, pulling him closer before thumping a fist against his back. He tries to avoid that bruise Kent got when he was slammed backward into the Schooners' railing in the previous game. "Me too."

For a long moment, Kent keeps breathing shakily and doesn't move.

Scrappy makes himself lift the corner of his mouth. "Try and be less of a rat out there, huh? Your new liney'll appreciate it."

Kent's dead silent. And then he says, "...I could lie and say I will, if that'd help?"

Scrappy snorts and then laughs as Kent steps back, his mouth turned up in a faint smile that's only a little forced.

"Okay," Scrappy agrees, patting Kent's shoulder. "Guess I can't ask the impossible."

Kent snorts and punches him lightly in the arm, before stepping back further. Scrappy looks over at Jeff.

Jeff gives him a half-grin. "We're gonna symbolically murder them every game next year, eh?"

Scrappy chuckles. "Okay."

"'Symbolically,'" Kent says under his breath, making air quotes with his good hand.

Scrappy and Jeff both tell him "No" at the same time. Kent snickers softly.

And then Jeff pulls Scrappy into a for-real hug, because he's kind of a sap sometimes. Scrappy figures this time is justified and hugs him back.

"I'm going to miss you, Dima," Jeff tells him, tapping his forehead against Scrappy's own. "You're a good friend. A good man. I'm glad I know you."

Scrappy swallows hard and bumps his forehead against Jeff's before pulling back to scrub at his eyes again. Jeff slaps him on the back, and then squeezes his shoulder hard with a little shake before pulling away.

"You too, guys," Scrappy manages. He's a little choked up again, but he's allowed, isn't he? "You're good friends. Thanks."

"You too," Jeff tells him, before scrubbing his hair. Kent nods, and looks like he's afraid to say anything else. At least Scrappy's not the only one tearing up, although he feels kind of bad about that. He wanted to be stronger, to make this easier, for them at least.

The trainer shifts on his feet. It's almost inaudible; but the meaning is still clear. They don't have forever. There's more stuff that has to get done tonight, before the Aces' latest playoff run is finally over.

Jeff looks down at the floor, and then nods faintly a few times before looking back up at Scrappy. He slaps Scrappy's shoulder one last time. "Goodbye."

"Bye," Scrappy says.

Kent reaches out and squeezes Scrappy's arm so hard it hurts. He pats Kent's hand.

Kent swallows again, and then nods and pulls his hand away. "Bye, Scraps."

He turns away before Scrappy can reply. Jeff drapes an arm over Kent's shoulders as they head down the tunnel. Kent drops his head and hunches his shoulders, fists clenched.

Scrappy watches them go until they turn the corner and disappear from view. And then he keeps staring for a little longer, before closing his eyes.

It'll be okay. They'll be okay.

He'll be...gone, but it's not the worst possible thing. Kent is the captain and Jeff is an alt; they're protected.

They'll look out for each other, even if he's gone. They'll look out for the team.

Things will be okay. It'll be okay. Maybe next year will be better.

"Hey," Elliot says gently. Scrappy takes a deep breath, and then opens his eyes and turns to face him.

Elliot holds out a little paper cup full of a thick, dark liquid, and a pair of anti-slip socks. Scrappy takes them both, staring at the socks in confusion.

"They don't make you go out barefoot anymore," Elliot explains. "It caused too many problems. Slowed things down."

"Oh," Scrappy says. He pauses, and then pulls at the leg of his sweats. "Then...?"

"The rest has to go," Elliot says sympathetically. "None of the old guys are willing to get that soft."

"Okay," Scrappy agrees. He looks down at the paper cup. "What's this?"

"Makes it easier," Elliot says.

Scrappy looks up. "I don't--"

"Anything you're about to say has been said before," the trainer tells him. "It's not optional."

Scrappy exhales through his teeth, but he lifts the cup and drinks the syrup.

It tastes cloyingly sweet, coating his mouth and throat. He makes another face and rubs his tongue against his teeth. It doesn't help.

"Yeah," Elliot agrees. He pulls a bottle of water from the pocket of his tracksuit jacket and holds it out. "I think it's always been awful."

Scrappy takes it. "...You know somebody this happened to?"

That's not exactly what he meant. They all know somebody it's happened to. That's the point: it happens to multiple guys, every year. The chance is always there, unless you're young enough or skilled enough to be protected.

That's why coaches, and trainers, and referees, and front office staff, and the Hockey Operations office all expect to be respected. They played, too. And they survived.

It's not a subtle power move, but it's effective.

Elliot knows what he means, though: 'was it was a friend?'

He nods. "Couple friends of mine," he agrees, taking the paper cup from Scrappy. "I played for Toronto back when we couldn't get past the first round."

"That's very far for Toronto," Scrappy says as sincerely as he can. Elliot makes a face and knuckles him in the bicep.

He hesitates a moment later, and then grips Scrappy's shoulder. "You shouldn't have been picked, Dmitri," Elliot tells him steadily. "They won't live this down."

"Thanks," Scrappy tells him. But Seattle will, eventually. Everything will go on, eventually.

Elliot squeezes his shoulder before dropping his hand. "It's been good to work with you, Scrappy."

"You too," Scrappy says. His head's starting to feel kind of fuzzy.

The Aces' trainer leaves. Scrappy drinks the water, but it doesn't do much to make the cloying taste go away. His mouth and throat are going numb.

He undresses and folds his t-shirt and sweats and underwear and socks together sloppily, and then puts them on top of the supply table. He puts his sneakers underneath it, and pulls on the anti-slip socks.

And then he takes several long, deep breaths, until finally he takes one last one before turning toward the tunnel's opening.

It feels like he's swaying a little as he walks out of the tunnel and down the concrete to the open door onto the ice, but it's not too bad. His head feels a little fuzzier, but maybe that's because the arena is dark. There are scattered safety lights still on, but it's nothing like the brightness of a game.

The referee is standing inside the Aces' bench, holding a flashlight. He nods at Scrappy when Scrappy looks over at him, before turning his head back toward the center of the ice.

Fearn is waiting there, shifting slightly on his feet. He's still in workout clothes and sneakers. Scrappy guesses that makes sense. You don't want to ruin a good suit.

He steps carefully onto the ice.

They didn't bother zamboni-ing the rink after the final period. The ice is still chewed up from all their skates. It doesn't give him much traction, though. Neither do the socks. He has to walk slowly.

The socks are a lot better than having to walk across the ice barefoot, though. But they're still thin. His feet are cold immediately.

All of him is cold, except his head. And his throat. Those don't really feel like anything.

He's shivering pretty bad. But he makes it to the center of the ice.

Fearn is standing at the edge of the center dot. Scrappy kneels down carefully on the opposite side.

His skin sticks to the ice. Scrappy winces, and then exhales.

He shifts around gingerly until he can pull off the socks. It feels weird to be wearing them but nothing else. He might as well do this last part traditionally.

"This is bullshit, Scrappy," Fearn says lowly, as Scrappy tosses the socks out of the center circle. "I was against it. It was a majority vote."

"You're the captain of your team," Scrappy tells him, because he forgives Jeff and Kent for needing him to act strong to help them do the same, but he won't forgive the opposing team's captain for wanting that. "You lead, it's on your shoulders. Have some fucking pride."

Fearn huffs out a breath through his teeth. ". . . Yeah, all right."

He grips a handful of Scrappy's hair and pulls his head back.

Scrappy doesn't resist. He stares up at the unlit logo on the bottom of the Jumbotron.

At least they lost in Las Vegas. The city was always too shallow for him, too full of people pretending to be friendly too fast, so many of them hyper-focused on appearances. But they genuinely love the Aces.

The Las Vegas Hockey Club: the first major league team to push its league for permission to put down roots in this gamblers' town.

His team.

At least at the end of his final game, he got to hear their fans clapping to thank them for the season, after it was clear their playoff run was over. It hurt then; but at least they weren't in Seattle, listening to the Schooners' fans screaming in joy as they skated off and headed to the visitors' dressing room to wait and learn who was going to be selected.

Since he has to do this, he's glad that it's going to happen on the Aces' home ice. The thought of kneeling on the Schooners' ice for this, while the rest of his team flew away from the city, would be too lonely.

"Good game, Scrappy," Fearn tells him.

Scrappy stares at the logo and thinks about all the guys in the dressing room who told him goodbye. Some of them he's known for years. Some of them were only traded in a few months ago.

One of them was a guy Scrappy doesn't know that well. He's pretty sure they've fought a couple times, back when Eddie was on opposing teams. But Eddie choked up when he told Scrappy he was sorry they didn't win it for him.

He thinks about Jeff's arm over Kent's shoulders, and the curve of Kent's back as they had to walk away and leave him behind: his last sight of the linemates and friends who battled this far with him into the playoffs.

Into a lot of playoffs. Into winning a Cup, once. That was something.

It'll be okay, eventually. Somehow.

"You too," Scrappy says. It's hard to talk with his throat pulled so taut.

And then he closes his eyes, and waits for the knife.  
  
  


There are rules.


End file.
